“It really isn’t proper, Your Grace. I’m only?—”
He put his hand up. “Please, Miss Lewis. It is far from improper to show my gratitude to you. I will be quite offended if you keep protesting.”
He gestured toward the house, and with a small, hesitant nod, she followed, her head fixed on the ground as they walked.
Inside the library, the firelight caught the copper glints in her hair. It was slightly lighter than he initially thought, peeking out in ringlets from beneath her cap. He wished he could see it fully cascading down her back.
She sat in the armchair by the hearth as Ambrose leaned against his desk, watching her, observing her every move.
“I must admit, Miss Lewis… You handled the boys with remarkable ease,” he finally settled on.
“Well… I, erm, I’m quite fond of children, Your Grace,” she said, taking a dainty sip of tea.
“Do you have any of your own?”
“No, Your Grace, I do not,” she said with a small wince, clearly uncomfortable at the forwardness of his questions. “Pardon me, Your Grace, but you have an extraordinary library. Have you read all these books?” She said softly.
“Hardly,” Ambrose huffed. “The maintenance of a duchy does not allow for such leisurely pursuits. Mostly treatises, contracts, and agreements.”
“Is that a first edition ofRobinson Crusoe?” she asked, gesturing toward the book on the side table. “Your nephews would enjoy it immensely. They’ve struck me as boys with a taste for adventure.”
“You enjoy literature in your spare time?”
“There is no finer escape than a good book, in my opinion, Your Grace,” she said, her fingers trailing over the spine. “That, and a good long walk in nature, among the trees and the animals.”
“How long have you been with the Presholms?”
“Quite some time, Your Grace,” she answered. “I serve the Countess of Presholm personally.”
“Hm. Curious. You have the eloquence of a scholar and the composure of a Duchess. Where were you educated, or trained, should I say?” Ambrose inquired, his brow furrowing.
“Well, I, uh, I was educated properly in literature, the arts…” she replied cryptically, not offering more.
He noticed that her voice was smooth, devoid of regional accents that were common among help.
Ambrose took a step toward her, drawn by an inexplicable gravity to figure her out, like a puzzle in need of solving. He was a man who knew theton, who knew the difference between a girl playing a part and a woman who truly belonged in a drawing room. There was a mystery in her high cheekbones, a hidden depth in her green irises that his instincts were screaming to uncover.
Despite his better sense, he wanted her. But for what, he did not know, nor could he admit.
“And what of your family?” he asked, his voice softening in hopes he would catch more flies with honey than vinegar. “Where are they from?”
“I am an orphan, Your Grace. I have only myself.”
The honesty in her small voice struck him. He let silence fall for another moment. Somehow, the space between them suddenly felt exceedingly small despite the grandeur of the townhouse.
Ambrose looked at her, really looked at her. He took in the curve of her neck, the way she didn’t look away from him, even though she should have.
He cleared his throat, the sudden tension in the room becoming too thick to ignore. “Thank you again, Miss Lewis.”
“I only did what seemed right, Your Grace,” she murmured, offering a small, graceful bow that was far too elegant for aservant as she rose to her feet. “Pardon me, but I believe it’s best I return to Presholm House.”
“Of course. Thank you once more, Miss Lewis, and have a good night.”
She stepped back toward the door. The movement was fluid and quiet. “You as well, Your Grace.”
Ambrose watched her go, the sway of her curves its own kind of goodbye.
His mind began racing. He had spent his life avoiding proper women and seeking out complications to soothe his needs and weary heart. Yet, as the door clicked shut, he realized he had never encountered a complication quite as intriguing as the little maid next door.
